


Meat

by TrilliumWoods



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Captivity, F/M, Force-Feeding, Forced Masturbation, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Murder, Kidnapping, More Smut Eventually, Sexual Assault, eventual E rating, physical assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29601978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrilliumWoods/pseuds/TrilliumWoods
Summary: I can't think of a summary right now, but here's another attempt at writing a more realistic - and therefore disturbing - story about Leatherface and his unwilling object of desire. Please do not read if that upsets you.
Relationships: Leatherface | Bubba "Junior" Sawyer/Reader, Leatherface | Bubba "Junior" Sawyer/You
Comments: 34
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

Your parents always warned you not to pick up hitchhikers, so you didn’t slow down when you saw the man standing by the side of the road, waving at you with one long, lanky arm.You didn’t make eye contact but still took in his form, the rough, slender shape of him clad in green and khaki, pale skin browned by the sun and topped with black hair. He looked weird. Very weird, and your decision to leave him there felt thoroughly justified.

At last the feedlot came into view, distorted by heatwaves radiating skywards from the pavement. It cleared up as you drove closer, but then the stink set in: the reek of manure and sweating bovines kept in way too close quarters. You parked your car at the side of the road across from the ramshackle structure: a metal roof held up by posts and surrounded by a rusty barbed wire fence. There’s offense number one - you were sure to find scars in the sides of the innocents held behind those harsh manmade thorns. Camera in hand, you then did a quick check to ensure no one was watching. The ranchers don’t much care for you hippie-types snooping around, collecting evidence of their misdeeds and cruelty.

When you were sure the coast was clear you crept closer till you could look right in the eyes of these beautiful creatures fated to become meat. The stench was unreal. Grassy drool frothed from their panting mouths and wet splats of shit spattered their legs. Hoof-deep manure covered every inch of the ground. Fat biting flies swarmed and tails swung, seeking relief. Metal troughs full of water must surely be next to boiling in the sun slanting in under the inadequate roof. Your camera shutter snapped over and over, documenting these conditions. Cattle should be free to roam on green grass - or at least the brown grass of the dry Texas countryside. After several long minutes, atrocities thoroughly captured, you scurried back to your car and sped off, hoping the heat didn’t cook the film right in your camera. You didn’t much fancy the idea of returning here anytime soon.

Not far down the road a small gas station appeared. It advertised barbecue on a dingy white sign, but that’s not what you needed - or wanted. What you needed was gas, and to hopefully wash your hands and take a break for the trail mix that you’d brought along for a snack. You pulled open the door, wondering where anyone would use the bait advertised for sale on it. As far as you knew there’s no real lake around here. The middle-aged man behind the counter greeted you in a slow, Texan drawl, then passed you the key to the restroom out back when you asked for it. He seemed friendly enough. Sizzling meat over flames filled up the wall pit in the corner - possibly pork, by the smell of it - and you wondered how the old man could stand the additional heat. You headed out the door and around back to the restroom.

No sooner had you turned the corner when there was a flash of green and khaki, tanned skin and black hair. Wiry arms shot out to grab you, trapping your wrists and jerking you forward, giving your arms a hard twist. You cried out in shock and pain, then recognition hit you in an instant. Slapped you right in the face like the wall of feedlot stench: it was that hitchhiker. The one that you passed by on the road not an hour earlier. You got only the briefest look into his black, wicked eyes, scrunched up in glee. What looked like purplish-red blood streaked down the inner corner of one eye to spread over his cheek. He giggled like a maniac overgrown schoolboy as he swung you around towards the side of the building by your wrists before you could so much as struggle or scream. Your head made contact with wood, then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL here I go again, starting yet another Bubba fic before finishing two others. I can't help it. There's just so much to explore when it comes to him. Plus I wanted to write something with an alive Nubbins included. I hope all you weirdos like me who enjoy the dark, more canon side of this film and it's characters like this story.  
> Comments and kudos are always received with gratitude. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

You’re not sure how long you were out. You groggily come to with a pain in your temple and left side of your forehead, and you can’t see a thing. Oh God, have you gone blind? Of equally pressing concern is the fact that your arms are bound tight behind you with some sort of rough rope, and when you kick out instinctively find your ankles bound, too.

“Now… now just calm down there, missy. You’ll be alright.”

You know that voice. It’s the last one you heard before the wild cackling of that hitchhiker and the thud of your head as it met wood. It’s the mild-mannered, middle-aged man who was behind the gas station counter, who handed you the bathroom key and who seemed nice enough. Apparently your instincts were way, way off there.

“What the fuck!?” You shout out, your breath bouncing off what feels like a fabric bag over your head. At least that most likely explains the blindness. “What are you doing to me?”

“Ain’t nothin’ ta worry about, just you relax.” The man answers. His tone seems like it’s meant to be soothing but there’s an undercurrent of glee, much like the glee that you saw on the hitchhikers face for that one confusing split-second before your skull hit the wall.

You wriggle about, trying to detect your location. It sounds and feels like you’re in a car - one that could definitely benefit from new shocks and suspension. You try to stitch together the memories of how you got here. How did this happen? You didn’t go looking for trouble with that weird, slender man on the side of the road. You did everything right. But it didn’t matter. Bad luck overruled good sense in this case, and it just isn’t fair. How ironic and sick to wind up hogtied like an animal destined for meat when you’ve spent so much time trying to liberate said animals. “What are you going to do? Where are you taking me!?” You shout out again, still muffled, and once again drawing that same faux-comforting response from your captor. You keep pleading and struggling, until a sudden thwack of something hard hits you over your shoulders. You yelp and flinch and your kidnapper laughs. Clearly the hitchhiker isn’t the only madman you’re meeting today.

You decide to stay quiet after that, trying to take in any possible clue to where you are and where you are being taken. It’s pretty futile, but it’s better than continuing to pointlessly beg or doing nothing at all. Your heart’s pounding wildly and sweat pours due to your nerves more than the heat. You need to keep your wits about you and not hyperventilate inside the bag. After what seems like eternity you drive off of the pavement onto what sounds and feels like gravel. The vehicle bounces more violently than ever, and as it begins to slow your alertness intensifies - it appears you’ve reached the end of your journey for now.

There’s the opening and slam of the drivers side door and the vehicle shifts under the loss of weight. “Get her outta the truck!” you hear the old man yell right beside you, and to your great dismay that familiar mad giggling of his accomplice soon follows. They’re working in tandem, and this is a nightmare. Their teamwork continues as they force you out of the truck, both men overpowering you with ease despite your struggles. You’re dragged up what feels like porch steps and a door is thrown open, and the scent changes from the dry but fresh Texas air to a thick, unpleasant sweet-rot smell. Like flies on decomposing fruit and meat. You don’t know exactly how to describe it, but it’s bad. It hangs heavy in the air and you feel it soak into your skin and clothes almost immediately, and if it were much stronger it would likely make you gag. You’re shoved onto a chair and tied down before you can move, rope winding around and around you from neck to pelvis. The bag is at last unceremoniously yanked off your head and you rapidly blink, momentarily blinded by light. As soon as you’re able your eyes open wide, darting every which way to take in your surroundings - where these creepy bastards have brought you. Everything’s lit by lamps in the corners and from the center of the ceiling, right over the dining room table in front of you. And then to your horror, you notice the bones. And the skins. Human bones, human skins, mixed in with those of animals.

“Jesus Christ, let me go! I didn’t do anything to you!” you beg, eyes rolling wild in their sockets, but while the old man looks somewhat sheepish, the younger one holding the rope only cackles.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere!” The greasy noodle of a hitchhiker laughs in your face. His grin is too wide, teeth too large and too perfect and unnervingly white contrasted to the rest of the room, all dingy and yellow. Yellowing wallpaper. Yellowed bones everywhere. Yellowed dry skin of a lamp hanging over the rough, peeling-yellow wood table. The yellow feet and beak of a dead chicken nailed onto a board right in front of you.

“Shut up!” The older man bellows, baring his own grey buck teeth, making the hitchhiker jerk away from you to glare at the scolding. “Quit foolin’ around, it’s time ta’ eat. Assuming that damn brother of yours got it ready by now.”

As if right on queue, a high-pitched, warbling squawk like an uncertain chicken drifts from the kitchen doorway. You watch in terrified anticipation as that doorway is filled by a massive figure that you soon recognize is a woman. She has a messy grey bun and a blue gingham apron over a cream-colored short-sleeved shirt… and she is absolutely enormous. You stare at her, in awe against your will, then realize she isn’t a woman at all. He is a man, a huge man, dressed up as a parody of a grandmother or housewife, round-shouldered and bearing two large plates of steaming food. Tittering and babbling, he shambles forward towards the table but then stops dead in his tracks when he notices you. He stares for a moment, eyes hidden in shadows beneath what you slowly realize is a crude human-faced mask, yellowed and pale much like the lamp hanging above you. The jaw is holding on by a few threads, hanging slack on one side, giving the impression he’s gawping at you. Maybe he is. He certainly seems curious if nothing else. You, on the other hand, are horrified.

“Look, Leatherface! I-I got a nice girl!” Your lanky tormenter cackles, poking one finger sharply into your sternum over and over. He’s close enough you can now identify the red stain on his face as a birthmark. Several crusted scabs pock his face - it looks like someone threw a handful of raisins at him and they stuck. His energy is wild, feral and tight like a live electrical wire, and every jab of his fingertip makes you flinch from the shock.

“Shut the hell up an’ leave her alone!” The old man yells again, and the hitchhiker backs off once more and slinks over to his seat on your left. But his black, cruelly-mirthful eyes never leave you. He’s so excited, more excited than you can ever remember feeling about anything in your entire life right at this moment. Like these are the moments he lives for.

The leather-faced grandmother-man nods, then quickly places the dishes of food on the table. He takes one more look at you, then hurries into the next room without a single word. But before who you assume is his father can even sit down at the table he returns, minus the apron and now wearing a dark, too-small dinner jacket and a different “face”: this one is ghastly white, black-haired and red-lipped with green smeared around the eye holes and way too much blush. The chin is floppy and split through the center to accommodate the width of his face. One ear that fit its original owner but is way too small for the thief’s head clings onto one side, making it seem like a vestigial growth. When he gets closer you realize the white is due to a thick coat of cosmetic powder underneath the garish blotches of color. It all looks like it was applied by an inebriated clown, and your befuddled brain can’t quite comprehend what exactly you’re seeing. Why? Why is he wearing someone else’s face? How could anyone do such a thing? How could anyone do _any_ of the things filling the room all around you? He creeps along down the table ever closer, empty black eyeholes staring straight into your soul, and you start to truly get the sense of just how large he is. Broad and tall and a little bit fat, thick-wristed and hairy like a grizzly bear. He looks like he could destroy you with ease but he’s moving almost cautiously - as if _you’re_ the dangerous animal he stupidly wants to poke with a stick while still having just enough sense to be careful about it.

“Alright now, quit gawkin’ an’ sit your fat ass down,” the old man grumbles as he sits on his own bone-adorned chair, and the leather-faced monster retreats just as slowly as he approached. But no sooner has his fat ass touched his chair when the old man snaps again, “Get her some food, you idiot. Eatin’ right in front of her ain’t no way to treat a guest.”

The beast squawks an apology and rushes back to the kitchen for another plate, glass of tea and a fork which he sets on the table in front of you. He spears a fat, greasy sausage and a slice of head cheese on onto your plate, then pushes his offering closer with a tiny piglet squeal before taking his seat again. The three men begin eating, apparently having forgotten that your hands are still tied, but you can’t say that you’re sad about it. The food looks and smells questionable, and based on the decor all around your suspicions as to its origin are dark. Very, very dark.

It’s then that you notice the corpse propped up on a chair across the table from you: an old man in a pinstriped suit that has no business being as dapper as it is in such a house. He blended in so well amongst all the other dead things in the room that you didn’t see him at first. Then that corpse smacks its lips once. Then twice. This corpse is _alive_. Leatherface, as he seems to be called, gets up from his chair and shuffles close to the shriveled old man, a bite-sized piece of headcheese pinched between two plump fingers. He kisses the bald pate twice and pats the thin shoulder three times, then one large paw eases the old man’s mouth open and slips the headcheese inside. He aids the old jaw in grinding it up, then returns to his seat as the headcheese goes down the flabby tortoise-like throat. Leatherface feeds himself for a moment before returning to the old man, more headcheese in tow. You watch this bewildering ritual repeat over and over, confused by the contrast of a skin wearing monster dressed like some androgynous freak performing the duties of a geriatrics nurse. It’s one of the most bizarre things you’ve ever seen. If it wasn’t so terrible, it would be almost sweet.

“Let’s give ol’ Grandpa a nightcap before turnin’ in.” The middle aged man suggests once his plate is cleared, and the hitchhiker grins wider with his mouth still full of food. He hasn’t stopped sadistically smiling the entire way through dinner, his greedy eyes devouring you like the meat on his plate. He guzzles down some tea then skulks foxlike towards you, and you shrink back as far as you can - which isn’t far at all. He reaches for an antler-handled knife sitting on a plate as his brother grabs you and picks you up right out of your chair while their father watches. You flail, but it’s pointless. Leatherface plops you down on his own chair next to Grandpa and the hitchhiker follows, knife glinting menacingly with the promise of pain. The blade slices quick through the tip of your finger, held immobile by your bound wrists in the hitchhikers grip. Your blood oozes out and Grandpa’s wizened old mouth creaks open, searching blindly. Your finger is shoved in. You want to vomit. He suckles like a newborn, toothless and eager. Leatherface pats his shoulder with one hand and restrains you with his other, and you can barely breathe. This is the most surreal horror you’ve ever experienced, and it’s making your brain short circuit. Your sanity is being sucked right out of you, just like your blood.

It goes on forever till it finally stops. Your finger’s spat out when the ancient man’s had his fill and you feel lightheaded and sick. Grandpa, however, seems energized, and his son and grandsons seem pleased. For several more minutes they fuss and coo over him, Leatherface in particular, till the father decides that it’s time to call it a night. “Get her upstairs, then clean up the kitchen and help Grandpa to bed.” He orders, but only Leatherface seems to acknowledge him. The hitchhiker just leers at you and brings the knife to his lips, then drags the flat edge along his tongue, consuming your blood with almost as much relish as his grandfather did. Christ almighty, you’ve ended up in the clutches of a whole family of Draculas.

“You sick motherfu-“ you start, but the words are cut short by Leatherface’s huge arms trapping and lifting you up once again. You make a grab for the black curls of hair as he hoists you over his shoulder, but it’s useless. He jerks his head away from your reach with a bellow, not quite angry-sounding but still somewhat displeased. The hitchhiker snickers as his brutish brother carries you upstairs and out of range, and though you haven’t a clue where you’re going next, you certainly won’t miss the sight of him. At the top of the stairs to the left, Leatherface pushes open a door to what is mostly likely a bedroom. It’s musty and small, with very old wallpaper that’s coming loose in some spots, and he hoists you off his shoulder and onto a dirty-looking mattress on the floor. There are no springs to squeak and no bounce to the mattress, it just gives several inches beneath your weight like a deflated tire when he lays you down across it. You wriggle around like a worm on a hook, but you’re thoroughly immobilized and your captor works quickly. Before you know it your legs are untied and your left shoe and sock are pulled off, and you feel the cold press of steel around your bare ankle. There is a metallic ‘click’, and when you try to pull away your movement is hampered by the weight of something… and when you squirm around enough to sit up and look down you’re horrified to see it’s a manacle attached to a thick chain. Your wide, terrified eyes follow the metal links along to the end that your kidnapper is holding, and lickety-split he has it padlocked to a large metal eye-bolt drilled into the wall. You see the briefest flash of silver in his big, meaty hand before it slips into his pocket, and you realize it’s the key. A key that you will almost certainly never see again.

You scoot as far away as the chain will allow while still staying on the mattress as he turns and moves back towards you. He starts making those disturbingly realistic pig squeals once more and you try to look at him anywhere except that horrible, powder-white dead woman’s face with her messed-up eye holes and caked on makeup - you want to see what he’s about to do without having to look at that grotesque leather abomination. Even though he technically hasn’t hurt you beyond the finger cutting incident at dinner, you can’t help but flinch like an abused dog when he reaches for your head. But instead of striking you he just gently pats you with the palm of his hand several times, much like you saw him do to that cadaverous old man who consumed your blood. But despite its gentleness, his touch makes you feel sick.

“Please,” you croak, “Please let me go.”

He doesn’t nod or even shake his head. Instead a low, chicken squawk emerges from those red-rimmed lips before his hand leaves your head to pick up a blanket nearby. Then to your surprise, he actually begins trying to tuck you in as if you were a small child. At least he isn’t joining you on the mattress tonight - hopefully he never will.

“Please let me go!” You plead louder, but your captor remains apparently unmoved. He just pats your blanketed knee several times, his black, bottomless gaze from behind the mask lingering on you just a few more minutes longer before he straightens up and walks towards the door. “God, please! Fucking please let me go, I won’t tell anyone!” You scream after him, panic flaring up again as he reaches for the light switch. But he only stares at you for another few seconds before the switch is flipped down and the door is closed with a creak, and you’re plunged into darkness.

There’s no point in screaming. You’re in the middle of nowhere, after all. But you can’t stop the sobs clawing their way out of your throat from deep in your gut as you kick off your blanket to pull at your chain and dig your fingers between the manacle and your ankle. You try in vain to pry the metal loose, the hot tears pouring from your eyes blurring nothing but blackness. But the craftsmanship of your restraints is impressive and your efforts are all for naught. How many others have been restrained by this same manacle and chain? How long did they survive before succumbing to whatever the sickness of these men drives them to do? Will you be milked for your blood as if you were a dairy cow? Is this just a temporary holding pen before before slaughter, as bare and inadequate as the feedlot you visited earlier? A place solely designed to keep you immobile and fatten you up before your meat graces their plates and your face and bones are transformed into fashion accessories or pieces of furniture? These thoughts make your head tip back till you’re facing the heavens and you let out an inhuman wail of despair, fighting even more desperately against your restraints until at last your strength leaves you and you sob yourself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's gettin' real now! I'm having fun trying to write Nubbins, and I hope his fans approve so far! :D


	3. Chapter 3

It feels like both eternity and mere seconds at the same time before the dawn finally breaks. Anemic streams of sunlight filter through the closed burlap sack curtains, illuminating dust particles in the stagnant air and yanking you from your restless, patchy slumber back to your horrific reality. You feel exhausted and sick from your over-saturation of adrenaline the previous night, but still immediately begin pulling at your chains again. Unfortunately your efforts are no more successful than they were before, and you don’t even get the time to try and fail for long before you hear footsteps outside and then the bedroom door creaks open.

Your head snaps up to see Leatherface enter your prison, brawny arms bent and carrying a tray of food and drink he apparently expects you to choke down. You’re hungry, but you don’t want whatever it is - you have your suspicions based on what you saw last night, and they aren’t nice. He closes the door behind him while staring at you - unblinking for all you can tell, for nothing is visible beyond the unflinching black holes where his eyes should be. He then approaches you with his shambling walk, cowboy boots clunking against the hardwood floorboards, broad shoulders hunched and his pelvis tipped slightly forward. Though he moves slowly you can still sense his excitement, his curiosity and fascination with you. He shuffles closer and you scramble back against the peeling wallpaper that reeks of decay, heavy chain clinking, trying to create more distance between yourself and your captor.

At last he’s close enough that you can see the glint of life behind the gouges through the leather where someone else’s eyeballs once were. His own eyes are dark brown with flecks of mossy green, rimmed with long black eyelashes. They would actually be quite lovely if he wasn’t a monster. He stares at you, tongue wetting his strange little teeth over and over. They’re serrated like the knife used to carve up dinner, glistening with spit instead of the bloody juices of roasted meat. The tongue slithers out atop the shelf of his thick lower lip, swiping side to side and dipping back into his mouth repeatedly as his gaze drops from your own mouth down lower. At last he bends to set the tray down, then clumsily sits on the floor beside you, far, far too close.

“What do you want with me?” you rasp, voice still hoarse from sobbing and screaming, though by now you’re pretty sure that it’s pointless. He hasn’t spoken a word of discernible English the entire time you’ve been here and he seems unlikely to start now. Perhaps his family can decipher his gibberish and piglike squeals, but you certainly cannot. Indeed he says nothing, he just scoots the tray closer to you: three links of what appears to be pork sausage, two fried eggs and a glass of weak-looking tea. There’s a fork but no napkin, and when you fail to move he picks up the fork to separate and spear a piece of sausage, then brings it to your mouth.

You purse your lips tightly closed. The food itself smells decent enough, but it’s overpowered by the stink of the man beside you: stale sweat and pungent musk. That plus the horror of your situation has killed your appetite deader than the poor person whose skin he’s wearing. But he’s unwilling to take no for an answer, it seems, because he makes a pig-like grunt and presses the loaded fork against the seam of your lips, attempting to push it inside. You jerk your head away.

“No, I don’t want it,” you mumble. This refusal is met with another grunt and the fork follows the turn of your head, seeking out your mouth again. You keep your lips sealed tight.

Now he seems frustrated. The grunt turns into what sounds like a slightly irritated squeal and he brings his free hand to the back of your head. Fearing that he’s about to snap your neck, you don’t resist when he forces you to face him. Another grunt and another press of the fork, this one much less gentle than before. He might puncture your lip or chip a tooth if he pushes much harder, so for the sake of your well-being, you relent. “Okay,” you mumble in defeat before opening your mouth. The bit of sausage goes in. It’s salty and greasy with small chunks of fat sprinkled throughout. It does seem to be pork, but there’s something slightly off about it and you pray to God that it’s not what you fear it may be. Surely no one is that sick? But you already know that your captor is sicker than you ever imagined people could be. The masks alone prove that. You swallow the bite whole as soon as you can without choking.

He’s watching you closely from behind this new mask and you take the opportunity to really study it. It’s horrific, utterly grotesque, but you’d rather focus on that than what you might possibly be ingesting. Unlike his mask the night before, this one is male with short, wavy hair so dark brown that it’s nearly black. The hair appears dirty and the style is unkempt, a few unruly curls hanging in front of his forehead and sticking up in somewhat stiff-looking cowlicks on top. The lips have been cut away and the mouth stretched wide in an upside-down ‘D’, held open by stiff wire that may have come from a repurposed coat hanger. It leaves plenty of room for his own mouth to show, plump lips and darting tongue. A brutal-looking wound in the center of the forehead has been messily stitched partially closed. It doesn’t look the right shape for a bullet hole, so you can only imagine that blunt force trauma ended this persons life. Or perhaps it was more than one person contributing to this hood of stolen skin, for there is a Frankenstein-esque seam running from jaw to jaw along the top of his forehead, only an inch or two below the scalp. It makes sense, you realize, that it would take more than one head to make a piece large enough to fully encase another, no doubt larger mans head. Flaps of skin are stitched to each side in crude representations of ears. His real nose pokes through the misshapen nostril holes of the mask. Not enough skin is showing for you to really know if he’s ugly or deformed, but what little you can see appears normal enough. It is whatever is going inside of his mind that is twisted.

The eggs and tea go down easier than the mystery sausage, but all of it churns unpleasantly in your stomach rather than truly sating your hunger. But then your roiling stomach sinks when you notice the bulge growing between his legs. He reaches one hand towards you, and even though it’s futile you can’t help jerking your head away when he touches your hair and starts stroking. It seems like he’s trying to be gentle, but his hand is so large and he clearly doesn’t know his own strength because more than once his thick fingers get caught and tug a few strands. After a moment he leans closer, his obvious arousal pushing hard against his pants as he stares at you. Jaw slack and tongue squirming, with his free hand squeezing the meat of his own thigh and pulling at his trousers, perhaps in an attempt to make his burgeoning erection more comfortable. You wince in horrified disgust when his hand moves from his thigh to his crotch, cupping himself through the fabric and squeezing slightly. You suppose you should be glad that he’s not being violent or touching you anywhere but your hair, but that still doesn’t make the fact that he’s petting himself just as clumsily as he’s petting you any less repulsive. You wish you could close your eyes so you don’t have to see his hand rubbing his crotch with increasing fervor, but at the same time you want to be prepared for whatever may be coming - if he’s going to do more than just touch your hair and his genitals.

He scoots even closer, so close that you can smell his own breakfast on his breath. He’s grunting and panting with his eyes locked on your face, then his gaze travels downwards to linger on your chest… and then, to your dismay, his hand leaves your hair to follow it. Your instinct is to recoil, but you’re already as far away from him as you can get so your back just presses harder into the wall. He doesn’t appear to notice, he just places his palm over your breast. Again it seems like he’s trying to be gentle, but he gets rougher fast until soon he’s squeezing so hard that it’s almost uncomfortable. But you’re too afraid to push his hand away - and it would likely be futile anyway. Squeals begin to mix in with his grunts as he strokes himself faster and harder, his tongue squirming ever faster to wet those unsettling teeth of his. The pitch of his voice goes up and its tempo increases, and you get the feeling his orgasm is close, thank God. He’s rubbing his cock so fast and hard through his pants that it’s almost hilarious, as if he’s trying to start a fire in those worn-out old trousers. Then it becomes very much _not_ hilarious when lets go of your breast and grabs your bound hands instead. There is no delicacy or care in his touch as he yanks them down to join his own furiously working himself to climax, and apparently your added touch is enough to push him over the edge. The noises he’s making somehow get even more disturbing, the hog squeals turned sharp and the gasping grunts throaty and deep, air forced out in heaves all the way up from his sizable gut and out his gaping mouth. Brown eyes clamp shut beneath that horrible mask as his head tips back, and you imagine wrapping the chain holding you captive around that thick throat and choking your way to freedom to distract yourself from the sweaty vice grip of his hand and the hot, twitching hardness he’s making you touch.

He finishes fast and you see the damp evidence of his climax staining his pants when he at last moves your hands away. At least you didn’t have to touch him directly, but the way that he’s looking at you makes you fear that it won’t stay that way forever. He brings your defiled palms up to his face and sniffs them for some reason, making your nose involuntarily scrunch. When he finally releases his grip you snap your arms back to your side. He touches your hair and then jaw with his bear paw of a hand again, stretching out one thumb to caress your cheek. He’s being truly gentle now, and he studies your face intently as his post-orgasm eyes regain their clarity… oh God, perhaps he won’t be making you masturbate him again after all. Perhaps your earlier fear of being skinned for a mask and butchered for the table will be your fate after all. But he gives you no further clues about what he’s got planned for you, he just lets go of your face and scoots back off the mattress. He adjusts himself when he stands up again, eyes never leaving you. You decide to try and plead your case one more time.

“Please let me go. I won’t say anything or tell anyone. I just want to go home, please.”

The beast still looms over you, but for some reason he feels slightly more human now. Still a horrible monster of a human, but more human nonetheless. He tilts his leather-wrapped head only slightly, then reaches down to pat you three times on the top of your head, as if you were a well-behaved dog. You can’t decide if that or the forced hand job is more humiliating. He silently picks up the breakfast tray and walks back towards the door with that slow, shuffling gait. When it creaks closed behind him the tears prick in your eyes again, and you try to hold back the urge to vomit and scream all at once. You only succeed at the former.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bubba wastes no time, LOL.  
> It's gonna be awhile till the next update, I'm afraid, but I hope this awful little chapter will tide you over till then! :D


End file.
